A Gaunt Haunt
by Twin28
Summary: Sherlock is bored. Again. But quickly a new case falls into his lap. Now Sherlock, John and Greg must figure out what is haunting a poor old woman's home; before what ever it is, kills her. On top of all that, something is in 221B and keeps putting dead things in the fridge!
1. Chapter 1

**A Gaunt Haunt**

**Chapter 1:**

Sherlock paced the apartment mumbling to himself.

"It just doesn't make sense!" He said loudly, stopping in the middle of the room. His flat mate, Dr. John Watson, sighed and placed the carefully folded newspaper in his lap.

"What doesn't make sense, Sherlock?"

"Everything!" He answered, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. The statement "nothing makes sense" was definitely an odd one to hear coming out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth. After all he was the (no becoming famous thanks to John's blog) Consulting Detective. He was called in by Scotland Yard on numerous occasions to help solve cases that, frankly, baffled even the highest ranked detective inspectors. Now suddenly, here he was in his apartment on Baker Street, telling his best friend that nothing made sense.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid I don't understand…" John started to say, but he was cut off.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, straightening from his position of head-in-hands, to his full height (an intimidating 183 centimeters) pointing at John. John stared at him blankly and Sherlock plopped over on their couch. With his feet banging repeatedly on the ground and his fingers drumming incessantly on the arm of the couch, he looked quite like a druggy who had missed his morning dose. John immediately thanked his lucky stars that he was not the one who was asked to hide Sherlock's secret stash of cigarettes; instead Mrs. Hudson was hiding them, and neither John nor Sherlock knew where.

"Nothing makes sense… you don't understand…" Sherlock stood up and began his pacing once more.

"Sherlock, perhaps you aren't getting enough sleep. Maybe you should take a nap? Rejuvenate your senses?" John offered, switching into doctor mode. Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him (again), so John stood up and walked over to the tall man.

"Why isn't there a case?!" Sherlock exploded, staring at the army doctor. John frowned and placed his hands on Sherlock's elbow, not wishing to embarrass himself by straining to reach his shoulder.

"If people are confused, they come to me. I solve the crimes, the murders, everything! And yet, that doorbell has rung only once, when you forgot your key! Why isn't anyone bringing me a case?!" Sherlock lifted his arm and pinched the bridge of his nose, effectively releasing his elbow from John's grip. Only just realizing that John was touching him, in an effort to comfort, Sherlock opened his eyes briefly and looked at his short friend.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." John said. He jumped at the sudden, brisk knock on the door. Quite unusual for him to be startled, John ripped his gaze from Sherlock's face, and turned just as the door opened and their land lady walked through the door, her arms filled with groceries. John rushed forward to help the older woman with the bags, but Sherlock remained in the middle of the room, watching them.

"Not interrupting anything, and I?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking from John to Sherlock. Neither of them replied. Mrs. Hudson placed a loaf of bread in John's hands and gave Sherlock the receipt.

"You haven't heard of any case needing my help, have you Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, looking hopeful.

"I'm sorry dear, I haven't. Don't you worry, something will turn up soon; a nice kidnapping perhaps." She said to him, a joking twinkle in her eyes. Sherlock didn't seem to see that. "In the meantime, enjoy your time off with John. Couples are supposed to be around each other when they aren't working."

John opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Hudson was half way down the steps before her statement processed through his brain.

"We are _not_ a couple!" John called after her, his voice echoing in the stairwell. He sighed and walked into the kitchen to begin putting the groceries away. Sherlock followed behind him, but he made no attempt to help. Eggs in hand, John walked to the fridge and opened it. Two glassy eyes stared at him from the top shelf Making no out word expression of shock, John placed the eggs on the bottom shelf, shut the fridge and turned to look at his flat mate.

"Sherlock, why is there a dead cat in our fridge?" Sherlock was staring out the window and didn't appear to hear John.

"Hmm…?"

"There's a bloody dead cat in our fridge!" Sherlock frowned at his friend.

"I thought you put it there?"

"Wha-? Why on earth would I put a bloody dead cat in the fridge?! Just- get rid of it, all right?" Sherlock leaned around his friend and opened the refrigerator.

"Hmm…interesting…" Sherlock stood with the door open, one hand on the handle, the other holding his chin.

"Do not start thinking about what experiment that dead cat would be useful in! The last thing we need is yet another 'kitchen experiment' that makes our food poisonous!" John nudged Sherlock aside with his elbow, with the intent of throwing the carcass away himself, but he stood frozen in front of the silver machine. "It's… gone. Where- how? The cat…?"

Sherlock looked from John's confused expression to the empty shelf, a smile spreading across his face.

"You know what this means!" Sherlock called, bounding around the room, grabbing his coat and shoes. John groaned.

"Oh, Sherlock…"

"We have a case!" Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck and looked expectantly at his friend. "Well? Aren't you coming?" John sighed.

"Sherlock, the only case we have is one of boredom…" No sooner had the words left his mouth, his mobile phone rang. Sighing he looked at the caller ID and handed the phone to Sherlock.

"This is Sherlock." He answered the phone. Listening for a few moments to the garbled speech coming through John's out dated phone, he gave no answer other than 'okay' before pressing the off button. John stared at him questioningly.

"We have a case!" With that, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of the apartment. The army doctor had just enough time to grab his keys before the door to apartment 221b slammed closed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

John and Sherlock got out of the taxi and walked down the street toward the blinking blue and red lights. The neighborhood was well-to-do, with fenced in yards and perfectly trimmed hedges. The day was overcast and foggy, despite the fact that it was past noon. Sherlock walked briskly down the street, and John had to jog to keep up.

"What was the call about?" The consulting detective's assistant asked. Without turning around, Sherlock spoke quickly.

"A woman called the police about an attempted murder."

"An _attempted_ murder?" John repeated. This didn't sound anything like their other cases, but Sherlock _was_ all but starving for some action. Sherlock turned right suddenly through a white metal gate and up a steep driveway. John looked up at the house on top of the hill and lost his breath. The house (if he could even call it that, it was more of a mansion really) was large and sturdy. The front walkway was cobble-stoned and the steps leading to the two oak doors were marble. The lawn was lush, green and extensive. There were three out buildings in the back! The house, obviously normally white, looked red and blue thanks to the flashing police lights. John was brought back to the situation at hand.

"Detective Inspector!" Sherlock called to Lestrade. To both the consulting detective, and the doctor's confusion, Lestrade shook his head and placed a notebook in the glove compartment of the police car he was standing next to.

"What's going on?" John asked. Lestrade shook his head again.

"Nothing. The old woman's gone mad. She thinks her _house_ is out to get her." John blinked.

"What do you mean? I thought she called about an attempted murder?" Anderson shoved passed John and opened the passenger side door of the car.

"Yeah, she thinks the house is the thing that's trying to kill her." The snooty little man said with a sneer. "There's no reason for us to be here." He got into the car, slammed the door behind him and tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm rest, waiting for Lestrade. Lestrade sighed and turned back to the shocked Doctor.

"You and Sherlock can head home. There's no case here." With that he stepped into the car, and pulled out of the driveway. John turned around to face Sherlock, but he wasn't there.

"Sherlock?" John turned in a quick circle and found Sherlock, standing in an empty flowerbed in front of a window, bent in half, his face practically in the dirt. The doctor stared at his friend for a moment, then walked over to him. "Uh, Sherlock? What are you doing?" The detective stood up.

"I'm observing." He answered, whipping the dirt from his nose with a pocket handkerchief. John stared.

"Observing what, exactly?" Sherlock sighed at his friend's obvious lack of intelligence.

"I am observing what you are simply looking at." He pointed. "Do you see this window? While you simply saw the window, I observed that from the road," he pointed to the fading car lights in the distance. "and from the house," he pointed through a tall tree to the barely visible front door. "this window is practically invisible. It would be the perfect place for someone to sneak in unnoticed. I was so hoping to find a foot print, but the ground is completely smooth. There's no trace of any human presence." Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at John.

"What did the woman who lives here tell you?"

"Nothing. I didn't talk to her." Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oi! Before you get angry with me," John protested. "you should know that this woman is completely mad. According to Lestrade, the thing that was trying to kill her was her house." The detective blinked.

"She thinks the house is trying to kill her?" John nodded. "Hmm…" Without explanation, Sherlock stepped over the dirt mound in the side of the flowerbed and walked briskly towards the front door. John followed and caught up with him just as he finished rapping on the oak door. The great structure swung open almost immediately. An older woman, about 70 years old, stared at the two men with sad green eyes. Her hair was grey with different hue tints hinting that her hair was once taken care of, but was now just dealt with. Her clothes were wrinkled and mismatched and her eyes had large purple bags under them.

"Yes?" She asked, staring at the unusual pair.

"Mrs. Whims? My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the consulting detective for Scotland Yard. This is my partner, Dr. John Watson. May we come in?" The woman looked rather startled but nevertheless she stepped aside wordlessly to let them through. Sherlock stepped quickly over the doorstep, but John stopped in front of Mrs. Whims.

"Uh, he means 'partner' as in coworker, not boyfriend. We're not together." Mrs. Whims stared at him. John closed his mouth, put his hands in his pockets and followed Sherlock through the doorway.

Though the house was well kept, it was evident the reason was because there wasn't much to keep. The entryway was bare, save for a small light styled to look like an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a photo hanging from the left wall. John looked over at it. The photo was grainy and in black and white. It showed a short man standing next to a stern looking woman. She had a crying baby in her arms and was holding a sad looking little girl by the hand. The man in the photo seemed to be the only one who was the least bit happy, despite his mangled appearance.

"So, Mrs. Whims," Sherlock said, spinning on his heels to face the woman who had just walked into the room. She had on the same blank expression as before. "What on earth made you think that your house was trying to kill you? I know the average brain makes things up, both in times of anxiousness and in old age (both of which apply to you) but that thought is completely ridiculous-"

"What he is trying to say," John spoke quickly, cutting off Sherlock. "is 'please tell us what happened.'" Sherlock seemed unphased.

"Yes! Do tell us!" The consulting detective sat down in the chair nearest him and looked expectantly at the frail woman.

"I don't understand…" Mrs. Whims said, looking at the strange pair before her. "When I spoke to the police t-they said they w-wouldn't help me…"

"Yes, well, we're not with the police. So, if you could just get on and tell us what happened, that would be lovely." Sherlock spoke impatiently.

"B-but you just said-" Mrs. Whims started.

"Yes, I did. I lied. I am a consulting detective, but I am not with Scotland Yard." Mrs. Whims sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock and John, and clutched a necklace in her left hand.

"Then why should I come to you for help? I-I can easily call someone else. Someone I know!" Sherlock was shaking his head before she had finished.

"Really Mrs. Whims, if your constant stuttering is any indication, if I leave there will be no one out there willing to help you." John looked over at Sherlock, a glare in his eyes, but Sherlock paid no attention. Mrs. Whims sighed and without further prodding, began her story.

"I live here alone. This house was-"

"Owned by your late husband, yes I know." Sherlock interrupted, nodding at the ring attached to a chain around her neck. "Would you please just tell us what tried to kill you?"

"H-how did you…?" She glanced at her necklace and cleared her throat. "Um, well yes. He did own t-this house. The house is fine; sturdy and easy to m-manage. But ab-bout a month ago, things started happening…" Sherlock sat up straighter.

"Things? What things?"

"S-shadows on the wall…stairs creaking when no one is walking on them… doors opening and slamming shut when no one is coming in…" Sherlock stoop up quickly.

"If that's all Mrs. Whims, I'm afraid the only person who can help you is a doctor or mental health specialist. Good day!" He turned to leave with John at his heals.

"Wait!" The woman stood up faster than it was believed someone of her age could. There's also… the man." Sherlock sighed, his hand on the doorknob, and faced the small woman staring at him.

"What man?"

"I d-don't know who he is. He just shows up. Outside my window, under my bed, in my closet. When I try to stop him…he disappears in the walls. H-He's a p-part of the house. He's always the s-same…" She trailed off, shuddering.

"Describe him to me." Sherlock said, giving Mrs. Whims his full attention.

"He's short and fat. He's always c-carrying… a knife… with blood…" Mrs. Whims sat clumsily down on the chair nearest her, and John rushed to her side. "He-he looks like…my father." Sherlock followed John to the now crying woman and looked at her.

"Why is it so strange for him to look like your father? It's probably just him trying to scare you out of the house. Nothing more." Mrs. Whims shook her head. She answered the consulting detective's question through sobs that shook her entire frame. Sherlock looked at John for a translation.

"She says it can't be her father." John glanced at Sherlock then back at Mrs. Whims, his hands wrapped around her small ones in an attempt at comfort. Though John had only just met Mrs. Whims, he felt slightly protective of her. She reminded him of his grandmother, only Mrs. Whims seemed more helpless.

"Why can't it be her father?" asked Sherlock, starting to get impatient; if he wasn't already. Mrs. Whims said something else unintelligible, and John's eyes widened. "What did she say?" Sherlock spoke quickly.

"She says, her father is dead."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

Sherlock and John were back at the flat. Sherlock was back to his pacing and John had his laptop in front of him and was typing away. The small device gave a little 'ping' and John straightened up.

"I've found something!" Sherlock walked over to John and the blogger began typing again. "Okay… Mr. Rupert Kennedy. Born in 1924 to a Mr. Thomas Kennedy and Alicia Kennedy. He seemed stable enough when he was alive…there's no record of medical issues other than obesity. In 2000 he died of old age…he was only 76." John looked at Sherlock. "Anything seem strange to you?"

"…No…" Sherlock trailed off, his eyes still staring at the computer screen. Suddenly he took the laptop from John and began typing furiously.

"Oi…! Sherlock, what are you-" John started to say, but Sherlock shushed him and John obediently fell silent.

"We need information on the Mother, brother and all other family members. Does Mrs. Whims have children? If so how old are they? Why haven't they been to see her recently? What has happened that is tearing that family apart?" Sherlock mumbled to himself as John struggled to follow his train of thought.

"I don't understand. Why do you think that none of her family has been there to visit? Who wouldn't want to be around that poor, sweet old lady?"

"You were there, you saw!" Sherlock answered, his long slender fingers making a strange beat on the keyboard as he continued his search. "The house was practically empty! Barely any furniture, only a small picture on the wall! Anyone who cares about this woman wouldn't let her live in a state like that! They would either furnish it or place her in a nursing home. Mrs. Whims also said that the haunting had been going on for about a month. Not long enough for any serious damage to be done, but long enough for someone to be seriously scared. Now, if someone her age was constantly being scared, wouldn't she have gone to someone sooner, before it reached the point of attempted murder? This all begs the question, _does_ she have someone to turn to, some sort of child or relative? And if so, why didn't she go to them? Are they away for work or do they just not want to be around her? Is there some sort of family rift dragging these people away from Mrs. Whims, or are her children just done dealing with their mother?"

Sherlock didn't seem in need of air after his monologue, but John was feeling rather light headed. Everything Sherlock had said was spinning around in his brain, but he was unable to process it all at once. The computer gave a small 'bing' and Sherlock let out a triumphant "Ha" John glanced over, but the computer screen was black.

"What was that for?" He asked, confused.

"I found the information I needed!" Sherlock spoke in a triumphant tone.

"Do you want to share that information?" John huffed, looking at Sherlock. "You know, considering I'm working the case too." Sherlock pushed the chair he was sitting in away from the desk and folded his hands under his chin. Instead of straight out answering John's question, Sherlock thought aloud. John didn't have a problem with this, as all of his questions were usually answered through this process anyway.

"So Mrs. Whims does have children. Or, _a_ child I should say. A one Ms. Theresa Whims, born and raised in London, currently in France for business. She's a corporate manager, go figure. And yet it appears she cannot even manage her own mother… ah…" Sherlock paused and closed his eyes. "Is that what this is about? Interesting…"

Unfortunately, this was not one of the times where John's questions were answered when he substituted for Sherlock's skull.

"What is this about?" In answer, Sherlock turned the computer to face John. "What..! Sherlock, what website are you using to get all this information?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes as he answered. "I'm in Scotland Yard's database. They have files on all the older families in London. Why do you ask? What website would you use?" John stared.

"I used an ancestry site. How on earth did you get into Scotland Yard's secure data base?!" John looked at Sherlock with a mix of annoyance and awe.

"I used Lestrade's username. It was easy enough to figure out, thanks to his fingernails…" Sherlock unfolded his hands and placed them behind his head.

"His fingernails…? Oh, never mind." Sherlock went back to his deep thinking. "I do have to ask though," John started. "This isn't like any of our other cases. As much as I hate to admit it, this could easily be a case of delirium. What made you take the case?" Sherlock breathed in deeply as he sat up straighter.

"Lestrade didn't take the case."

"So?"

"So, if we solve it, it proves that they need to be more observant."

"Oh for Pete's sake…. Is that the only reason?" John asked looking at Sherlock, fearing for Mrs. Whims. If Sherlock only took the case to one-up Lestrade, then Mrs. Whims could easily not be helped by Sherlock. He was famed for getting distracted. If something more interesting came up, he would just drop the case.

"You were there, you saw it." Sherlock said, staring at John.

"Oh please don't do that. You know I'm not following you. Just spit it out." Sherlock sighed.

"When I was looking for footprints in the garden bed. My face was practically in the dirt-" John had to stifle a laugh. It was a funny sight to see a man almost 200 centimeters tall, bent in half with his nose to the ground. Sherlock ignored him and continued talking. "Yet I could see nothing. Nothing! Not a single mark where the bugs had been crawling. Then as I stood up to leave you and I both saw the mound of dirt off to the side of the garden bed."

"I'm afraid I'm not following you." John said. Sherlock huffed loudly in exasperation.

"Don't you see?! There was no mark! _There was no mark!_ The only thing there was the mound of dirt. Quite unnatural, not something you'd see in a garden bed, unless someone had been there. Someone had obviously been standing in the garden bed looking through the window – I'd go as far as to say they could have even jumped through the window to gain entrance to the house – and then used some sort of cloth or broom to wipe away their footprints. All the marks in the bed had been swept away, and the person only swept in one direction, so the mound of dirt was formed."

John blinked. "So you have-" Sherlock cut him off.

"Actual proof that someone was scaring Mrs. Whims. Or at least, standing in her garden bed looking through her window."

"So what do we do now?" John asked, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock stood up quickly and grabbed his coat.

"Now, we go and find her daughter."

* * *

A/N:

Hi Everyone! Normally I don't write author's notes because it takes away from the story, but I wanted to say sorry for taking so long to post this chapter. Stupid final exams... Also I wanted to thank Nightwatchman1997 for beta-ing my story! I needed it :)  
Please review!


End file.
